


Bittersweet Spell on Me

by bughnrahk



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Anal Training, Bottom Hank, Established Relationship, Fingering, Fisting, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Sex Toys, Smut, Top Connor, ken doll Connor, with feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-19 19:54:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17008164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bughnrahk/pseuds/bughnrahk
Summary: Connor made a frustrated noise and held up the dildo. “I don’t want this to make you happy.Iwant to make you happy.”Aw hell. Hank knew where this was going.“I know fingers aren’t enough-“ said Connor.“I don’t want you to change anything about yourself for me, Connor. I love-““I think I’d like to fist you.”Hank stopped dead in his tracks.Okay.Notwhere Hank thought this was going.----Connor wants to fist Hank. Hank's not sure he can take it.Yet.





	Bittersweet Spell on Me

**Author's Note:**

> FINALLY. 
> 
> This thing has been on the backburner for months. I said "fuck it" and took a break from Big Bang revisions to actually put words on paper. So, here were are. My massively self-indulgent fisting fic. 
> 
> Thank-you to the beautiful handful of people on tumblr who encouraged me to write this.  
> And thank-you to Jeff Goldblum for saying: "There's no such thing as bad taste, only your taste."

“Oh, Jesus, Connor,” Hank gasped. Gasping was about all he could manage with Connor’s right hand pinning him to the mattress, his dick - the dildo - whatever - driving into his ass like Hank’s prostate was gonna divulge all the secrets of the universe if he hit it hard enough. Maybe it would. Hard to say when half of Hank’s brain was busy dribbling out his dick.  Connor’s left hand burned bruises into Hank’s hip, pulling him back with every rough thrust, wringing ungodly noises from his throat.

Fucking mind-blowing. Hank couldn’t move. The litany of noises wrenched from his lips had to be gibberish because Hank couldn’t string two coherent thoughts together. Nothing more complex than “Fuck. Connor. Yes,” anyway. A lot of that. Connor yanked Hank up into his lap and even that was gone. No words, no noises, just messy, wet breaths panted straight into Connor’s ear while the smug little bastard impaled him on the dildo. Hank tossed his arms around Connor’s shoulders and clung on to the last scraps of his sanity.

Connor buried his face in Hank’s neck and licked the sweat off his clavicle. His tongue was a cool point of focus amidst all the heat and slick.

“I can’t-“ Hank grunted, biting back a groan. His thighs burned.

“Let me.” Connor dug his fingers into the meat of Hank’s ass and pulled him up, held his weight in that effortless android way of his, until just the head of the dildo breached Hank’s rim.

Hank groaned and scrabbled at Connor’s back.

Connor shoved him down.

Hank howled, spine arching, and tossed his head back. His orgasm ripped through him without warning, so sudden it almost fucking hurt. His cock pulsed lines of come down Connor’s torso. Connor fucked him through it, steady as a goddamned metronome. Rocking against his prostate until he’d wrung every last drop of jizz out of Hank’s dick and reduced Hank to a sweaty, shivering mess, breathing in shaky hiccoughs.

“I didn’t even touch your dick,” Connor mumbled, smug against the heat of Hank’s skin.

“Shut-up.”

Connor eased him to the mattress and slipped the dildo out of him. Hank flopped on his back, grinning, and pushed sweaty strands of hair from his face. Connor’s eyes were warm as hot cocoa in the middle of winter as he bent over Hank to kiss him properly. The cinch of the strap-on belt clicked undone and Connor let it fall to the bed.

“That was fucking amazing.” Hank tossed an arm over his head and willed his heart to slow to a less thunderous pace.

“I could tell.”

Hank snorted. Every limb was a wobbly mess, but Hank peeled himself off the bed, anyway. He was sweaty. Lube turned tacky down his thighs, come drying on his belly.

“I’m gonna have a shower,” he said. “You wanna come?”

“No.” Connor shook his head. “I’ll tidy the bed.”

Because Hank wasn’t gonna sleep in the wet spot and Connor probably planned on force-spooning him all night so they could get up early. Even on fucking Saturday, when all heavenly creatures might let Hank sleep in past noon.

Hank stole another kiss, grabbed his towel (off the bedroom floor, of course), and headed for the shower. The ache hadn’t set in yet, but it would. Thighs, belly, back, it was coming. Hank kept the shower brisk, five minutes to wash the lube off his ass and sweat out of his hair. Still, Connor could get a lot done in five minutes.

Hank didn’t expect to find the bedroom light still dim and the blankets a rumpled mess when he ambled across the hallway.

Connor sat on the edge of the bed, cradling the strap-on in his upturned palms. His LED spun yellow. Connor jerked his head up to meet Hank’s eyes, and the yellow flashed to red.

Hank stopped towel drying his hair. “You look like you’re having an existential crisis there.”

“I...” Connor dropped his gaze. He didn’t intend to get caught, sitting there with his mood ring shouting his thoughts against the wall. Connor eyed the dildo. The strap-on. Just a nice regular sized dick, not quite the same tone as Connor’s skin, because Connor was ridiculously pale, but close enough. Hank had ordered it off the internet with Connor’s approval. Connor seemed excited about the prospect.

But it hadn’t lived up to expectations. Not for Connor.

“I know I’m being selfish,” Connor started, his tone like a dull heartthrob.

Ah, crap. Hank was a piece of shit. The strap-on had been his idea. Connor’s hand and Connor’s mouth? Amazing. It was Hank who asked for something more. The guilt curdled in his stomach.

“I want to feel you when we make love,” said Connor, eyes on the toy.

Connor steadfastly refused to call it fucking, except to watch Hank’s cock bob during sex. Hank had never been able to stop his face from heating up at the words ‘making love.’ He didn’t need a mirror to know his ears had gone beet red.

“Obviously, cataloging and analyzing your reactions is immensely gratifying and I like over-loading my systems by hyper-focusing on you during sex, but it’s not... I want everything, Hank. I want all of you. And I want all of you to be mine.” Connor made a frustrated noise and held up the dildo. “I don’t want this to make you happy. _I_ want to make you happy.”

Aw hell. Hank shouldn‘t have suggested the strap-on.

He knew where this was going. Plenty of android run businesses popped up after CyberLife kicked the bucket. Lots of upgrades for androids, data packets, moving tattoos, cosmetic adornments to turn every android into the Transformer they always wanted to be. And genitals. More dicks and vulvas in more variations than Hank had thought possible.

Connor was gonna ask for a dick.

“I know fingers aren’t enough-“ said Connor.

“I don’t want you to change anything about yourself for me, Connor. I love-“

“I think I’d like to fist you.”

Hank stopped dead in his tracks. His mouth might’ve been hanging open. Hard to tell.

Okay.

Not where Hank thought this was going. So far from Hank’s direction it was in a different time zone. A different continent. What the hell was he supposed to say to that?

Connor lowered his eyes. His LED swam red-red-red, casting waves over the walls.

Hank took a step toward Connor, and another, leaving damp footprints in the carpet. He was hyper-aware of how naked he was. Hair still dripping water, making his skin pebble in the damp chill.

“There’s a big difference between this.” Hank pointed at the dildo. “And this.” He took Connor’s hand. Connor let him manipulate it into a fist. Hank could wrap his fingers around it, but damn, Connor didn’t have small hands. Hank’s might have been obscenely large, but Connor’s were proportioned to the rest of him. Only apparently small next to Hank’s ridiculous bulk. Put him next to a regular sized person and he towered.

“You can’t take it.” Disappointment strained Connor’s voice.

“I’m saying I’ve always been a middle-of-the-road kinda guy. A big dick is nice, but I haven’t exactly been taking any monster cocks lately. God, Connor, just... how?”

“I don’t expect it to be something we can do right away, but it’s very possible with time and training.” Connor peered up at Hank, eyes wide, pleading. The fucking puppy dog trick that made Hank crumble every damned time.

Hank grumbled. “How long have you been thinking about this?”

“I’m capable of processing a great deal of information in seconds.” Connor shrugged. “I kept myself busy while you showered.”  

Hank pulled away, grimacing. “We can throw the strap-on in the trash, I don’t care if we ever use it again. It was just something to try, alright? It’s not a big deal.”

“It is a big deal.” Connor frowned and surged to his feet, crowding after Hank. “You can’t look me in the eye and tell me there isn’t a difference between me fingering you and using something more substantial. I can read everything your body does, Hank. You can’t hide from me.”

Except Connor never would have known a damned thing if Hank hadn’t wanted to try the toy. So there’s that. “I can’t take your whole fist.”

“Not yet.”

Jesus Christ.

Hank scrubbed his hand over his face and dropped to the corner of the bed. The mattress dipped from Connor’s weight. Connor’s fingers - cool and smooth - slid over Hank’s thigh. Gentle, meant to be soothing, rubbing little circles just above the knee. Connor knew every damned button Hank had.

God, but he loved this little bastard so fucking much.

“Let me think about it, alright?”

“That’s all I’m asking.” Connor pecked a kiss to the side of Hank’s face and pulled them both back to the bed.

Ordinarily, Hank liked to sleep on the left, keeping himself between Connor and the door. Dumb little thing, especially when Connor had Hank beat on reaction times and they were equally capable of handling themselves. But Hank couldn’t tamp down the protective instinct, and Connor didn’t mind. Seemed tickled pink by it.

But tonight? Connor arranged Hank on the right and curled himself tight against Hank’s flank, one arm braced across Hank’s middle, fingers fluttering through Hank’s body hair.

He never cleaned the mess, Hank realized. He left the come-stained sheets on the bed and ignored all the sticky spots of cooling lube. All on the left side, Hank’s side. But Connor’s more amenable to laying in come than Hank is.

Dumb, perfect, little terminator.

Hank laced their fingers together and stared at the wall. It reflected the yellow ghost of Connor’s LED.

 

\---

 

Weeks passed without a single discussion on the subject of fisting. Connor said nothing and Hank didn’t know how to bring it up. Life went on. The strap-on was relegated to the dark corners of Hank’s closet and Hank tried not to think about it. Cases kept them busy. Connor became a little subdued at home, less pushy about dragging Hank to the bedroom whenever opportunity - or fancy - struck. But he was still Connor. Still touched Hank all the time, still curled into Hank’s side while Hank watched basketball and got takeout all over the couch cushions. He kissed Hank at the office when he was certain no one was paying attention to them and whispered “I love you“s in innocuous little statements that Hank deciphered like it was his first language.

He loved Hank, the little bastard. He wanted Hank.

It was a weird feeling. Hank had written himself off after Ashley left him (rightfully so). He hadn’t wanted to date. He’d barely wanted to be alive. Then this ridiculous little robot dropped into his lap and picked away at him. Would Hank be here if Connor hadn’t shown up and slapped him awake (in more ways than one)? Shitty thought to have. Hank didn’t care for the answer.

Connor was perfect from the nuts and bolts that made up all his insides to the haphazard scattering of moles kissing his skin. And he, this perfectly crafted, immensely intelligent, charmingly awkward android, loved Hank with more ferocity and dedication than Hank had ever experienced in his entire damned life.

He just wanted to make Hank feel good. His aspirations might be bigger than Hank’s asshole, but how the fuck was Hank supposed to look him in the eye and tell him no? He wasn’t even gonna try? The idea revved his engine, being filled up with Connor like that. Stretched to the limit. More than he’d ever tried to take before. Good image.

What the fuck was he afraid of?

Failure, for sure. Leading Connor along only to find out Hank just couldn’t do it. Connor might say he’s patient, but Hank lived with the fucker. Connor liked results, and he liked getting them quickly. Hank had more patience in his left kidney than Connor had in his whole body.

But he never pushed further than Hank’s limits. He might occasionally show Hank how to redefine those limits, but he could read Hank’s discomfort better than Hank could. He’d stop before Hank could say a word. Connor was, in all things, observant and quick to adapt to circumstance. He sure as hell had never made Hank feel like less than a king in everything they’d done together.

If it didn’t work, it didn’t work. But Hank had to try. Right. Mind made up. A for effort, Anderson.

Gathering up the courage to tell Connor he’d decided? Not easy either.

Hank tried over dinner during a quiet evening. He manned the frying pan, throwing together a stir-fry while Connor tasted ingredients as he handed them to Hank. They shared a kiss, sticky with teriyaki, and Connor laughed into Hank’s mouth from the quiet, giddy joy of it. The urge to say something swelled in Hank’s chest, but shame followed quick on its heels. Too much to want, too large a risk. The dread of failure, of Connor’s disappointment, chewed at him. Hank looked away. Connor’s smile wobbled and pierced Hank’s heart. He flicked a spoonful of rice at him. They tussled, made-out against the kitchen counter, and Hank burnt the stir-fry.

Hank tried again a few days later, walking Sumo around the block with Connor’s hand in the crook of his elbow. Obnoxiously early in the morning, dew still sticking to the grass, just a sliver of sunlight crawling over the horizon. Sumo strained on the end of the leash and chased scents that only he (and maybe Connor) could smell. Connor was gorgeous in the dawnlight, wearing one of Hank’s decades old Judas Priest hoodies. He smiled his soft smile, looking pale and youthful and perfect. The words were there, in Hank’s throat. Connor looked up at him with heat and emotion so severe Hank thought he might choke.

Didn’t manage to say anything then, either, but he pulled Connor into a kiss right there on the sidewalk and spent the rest of the excursion halfheartedly trying to chase Connor’s hands away from him.

In the end, it took a dash of adrenaline and the wrong crowd to pull the admission from between Hank’s teeth.

“We need back-up at 9900 Mt Elliot. Perps are heavily armed. Officers pinned down,” Hank barked into his radio.

Connor’s LED flashed off orders to the rest of the android squad.

They were pinned behind a pallet of furniture, rapidly running out of bullets. Hank had three shots left in his pistol. No idea about Connor, but they’d been at it for a solid ten minutes (a goddamned eternity). If they didn’t get back-up soon, shit was gonna go down real bad.

It was a drug racketeering schtick, dead bodies strewn across the streets of Detroit, thirium bled dry. Connor put together pieces from the fractured memories of broken androids and led a team here, to the warehouse. Information panned out better than expected. They’d been seperated and pinned down, no officers KIA as far as Hank was aware, but communication got messy. Outgunned and outnumbered.

Connor took a bullet to the arm early in the fray, and another grazed his cheek, drowning the side of his face with bright blue war paint. He looked like fury incarnate. Face screwed into seriousness, something deep and mechanic churning gears behind his dark eyes.

Goddamned gorgeous.

Footsteps thundered around the corner.

Hank braced himself, finger poised on the trigger.

A man swept into view. Connor grabbed his shoulder and wrenched him around the pallet. He kicked the man’s legs out from under him and slammed him onto the floor with a crack that made Hank’s teeth ache. The guy went limp. Hank checked his pulse. Alive, but not getting up any time soon.

“Good one.”

Connor nodded.

“Detroit Police Department!” A voice boomed through the building. Android, amplified. “Put down your weapons and come out with your hands up. We have you surrounded.”

Hank slumped against the pallet, exhausted and dizzy with nerves. Adrenaline surged through him. His heart hammered loud enough he could hear it battering inside his own ears.

Connor loomed over him, back pressed against their cover, service pistol at the ready. Handsome and perfect. Perfect at his job. Every inch of him, made for this.

Hank rapped his knuckles on Connor’s calf.

Connor glanced down at him.

“I want you to do it,” said Hank.

Connor frowned, processing.

Gunfire blared behind them. Too close. Too damned close.

“What?” Connor narrowed his eyes.

“Fist me,” said Hank. “Let’s give it a go.”

Connor stopped blinking. Stopped stimulating breath. His LED flickered yellow-red and if Hank hadn’t known better, he’d say Connor was rebooting. He wasn’t, not during a firefight, but he sure as hell looked like someone pulled his plug.

“Hank.” Connor dragged his eyes down Hank’s body.

Hank felt his gaze like fingers plucking at his clothes, made all the more intense by the blaze of fury in Connor’s eyes, the blood dripping off his cheek.

The gunfire died out.

“Clear!” someone shouted. Tina, maybe?

Connor bent down, fisted the collar of Hank’s shirt, and dragged him into a sloppy kiss. He tasted bitter, like thirium, and Connor wiped it off his face as they separated.

  



End file.
